


Three Stories for a King

by Rahasia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Female!Bilbo, Gen, concussion is unpleasant, sarcastic hobbit internal monologue, shameless fix-it fic, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:03:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahasia/pseuds/Rahasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stubbornness was both a Baggins and a Took trait. She’d promised to see this journey through, and so she would – insular, pig-headed dwarves be damned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Stories for a King

**Author's Note:**

> _No ___
> 
> No one is ever good enough,  
> or kind enough.  
> No one stays awake  
> through the lovely rush of rain which fills our dark.  
> No one can hold the music.  
> They are counting coins or frowning,  
> they are toppling, they are drowning.  
> No one is ever good.
> 
> But nothing is as quick as us,  
> no screen can match us,  
> tape’s whirr catch us,  
> nothing like sun  
> to light from sad.  
> Nothing in all history  
> can reach to take your hand from me,  
> the dark, the rain’s gift, O  
> we should be glad.
> 
> ‘No’, Alison Brackenbury, _Then ___(Manchester: Carcanet, 2013), p. 93.

**Beginnings**

She had lost calluses, forgotten how to handle a blade with any sort of dexterity, but she could still follow the grain of the wood. And in an environment where conversation was primarily in foreign tongues – particularly those not meant for the pointed (‘practically elven!’) ears of hobbits – or equally incomprehensible signing, something to keep the hands and mind busy was necessary. It had become habit, by now, to whittle – something of her father with her, even as this journey called on all the knowledge Belladonna Took had passed down to her daughter. Knowledge she’d boxed off tightly for the best part of twenty years, and by the time she’d begun to settle back into the pattern of travel, and reacquire a little muscle and stamina, the image of a fussy little gentlehobbit was firmly fixed in the minds of her travelling companions. Referring to her as ‘the baggage’, indeed!

Well. Stubbornness was both a Baggins and a Took trait. She’d promised to see this journey through, and so she would – insular, pig-headed dwarves be damned.

*******

**Battle**

There was something crawling on her face. Muzzily, she tried to wave it off, to be woken by a sharp pain in her forearm. Swiping stickiness away from her eyes with her left hand, she looked up, trying to focus. Flies, she realised. Flies, and something lying awkwardly across her right arm, pinning her into the mud. Mud, and blood, and all manner of things that she really didn’t want to think about. Leaning her weight as far to the left as possible, she slithered backwards, cradling her wrist, vision swimming again, trying to sit up, orientate herself – anything to make sense of her surroundings.

Focus. No sound in the immediate vicinity, although a dull roar of metal clashing and voices shouting was coming from further away. Something that had, once, been a goblin lay beside her – had been partially on top of her, before she’d freed herself. Gorge rising, she just had time to turn to the side before being quietly, painfully sick.

Right. No help to be had here, and plenty harm. She had to find the company.

Getting to her feet was a miserable experience, her surroundings swimming around her, head feeling strangely distant from her body, and pain blurring every attempt to think. She stumbled twice before finding what had probably been part of a longbow, but was now serving as a hobbit-sized crutch as she attempted to navigate her way down the hill. The Ravenhill – yes, that was right. She’d been running towards the company, wearing her ring. Which, it seemed, she was still wearing. Perhaps that explained why she was so off-balance.

Looking down towards the valley, Bilba saw something flashing mithril-bright in the centre of the field, where the waves of orcs and wargs were thickest. As good a target as any, she thought, hysterical laugher slipping out as she found herself scrambling down the hill without having made a conscious decision to run, slipping and sliding as the ground gave out beneath her.

Had she been aware, she would have been terrified. As it was, a haze seemed to have settled over her, dulling pain and logic alike as she crawled over the dead and dying, ducking under the melee, Sting lashing out at tendons, knees and ankles as she moved towards where the company must be. There was no elegance to her movements, but somehow, she was getting through, buffeted off armour and bodies, but not stopped. She spotted Nori, fighting alongside his brothers, teeth bared and knives flashing. Then she was knocked backwards, as a warg, larger than the others, shouldered through the fray, its pale rider wreaking havoc with a mace, a pack of orcs charging behind, scimitars bared. Head spinning again, she ran after them, choking to breathe, so frantic she wondered they didn’t hear her.  

The pale orc had stopped, surrounded by his cohort, and it was all she could do not to run into them. Heart beating rabbit-fast, she slithered through a gap, falling into the churned up ground in the centre. She’d found them – Thorin snarling at the orcs, Fíli and Kíli back to back, the latter’s quiver empty and bow discarded, their swords out. What was she doing here? What could she possibly hope to achieve, untrained and exhausted? Raising Sting, she looked up at the orcs, impossibly tall.

A speck in the sky distracted her, for a moment. Dimly, she heard a shout – ‘the eagles! The eagles are coming!’ – before the white orc moved towards Thorin, the guttural sounds of Black Speech and Khuzdul filling the air.

She hadn’t come this far to see him die, so close to their goal. And really, when it came down to it, this was as good a way and place to offer recompense as any other. And so, moving quickly and quietly as only a hobbit can, she stood in front of Azog and, raising Sting, stood firm.

‘I should dearly like to hear Westron again before I die. Really, is one coherent conversation too much to ask for? It’s terribly rude, you know, to converse in a language your companions don’t understand.’

Later, she might be able to enjoy the bug-eyed expression of confusion that crossed Thorin’s face. Right now, however, she had bigger – and far uglier – fish to distract.

‘I stopped you from killing him before – are you really going to keep trying? Because I warn you, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. After a dragon, you’re small-fry.’

It was perhaps not one of her better plans. Azog was, apparently, less interested in word games than either Gollum or Smaug. Raising his mace, he roared out an order, and in the chaotic moments that followed, all Bilba could do was hack wildly at any orcs that came near her. When one, staggering backwards, took Sting with him, she was left to duck low, scrambling for anything with which to defend herself, dependent on her ring and the bedlam surrounding her for survival.  

An orcish scimitar is not a weapon designed for hobbits. But it was all that came to hand as she saw Azog standing over Thorin, mace raised. And while Bilba could not have matched blades with an opponent, even an untrained hobbit has an advantage when invisible – and even an orc will notice when you hamstring him.

As she swung, Bilba was conscious of a wet thud, and amongst the cacophony of steel, a shrill screech. Once again, she found herself lying in the mud, knocked down by the leaden weight of a goblin, looking up as the eagles swept in, snatching away orcs and wargs alike as the allied forces rallied around the company, flanks reforming on the hills. This time, as her vision blurred, she did not fight it.

***

 

**Aftermath**

Bilba woke slowly, to the sound of rain on canvas, and the smell of pipe smoke. She doubted orcish hospitality ran to tents. A victory for the five armies then. And someone by her bedroll, talking quietly.

‘Only you, halfling, could complain about manners on a battlefield.’

Lifting her head, she offered a muzzy response. ‘In my defence, I’m fairly certain I was concussed at the time.’

A startled – and completely incomprehensible – oath and the clatter of a dropped pipe followed her statement. Someone outside – Fíli, perhaps? - hollered for Oin, and Thorin’s head loomed over her field of vision, hair hanging down over her face. ‘Bilba? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, I –’ She broke off, coughing. ‘Water?’

A mug was lifted to her lips, and she sipped, cautiously. The water felt glorious – cool and clean, washing the iron tang from her mouth. Looking up, she saw Thorin watching her, brows lowered. Attempting a smile – goodness, even that hurt – she offered, ‘I’m going to choose to interpret that expression as concern, rather than disappointment at my apparent survival.’

Full-fledged scowl. That was a ‘yes’ then. Probably.

‘I have been waiting here for the best part of three days, halfling. I would do no less for any of my company, but least of all one who has done so much for – for my people.’ A pause, a breath, and before she could respond to that – was it too late for her to apologise? Because really, they were both due for one – he continued. ‘Bilba, had you not awoken, it would have been a bitter end to this journey. If I could, I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate.’

This time it hurt less, as a half-smile pulled across her face. ‘A fine pair we are, Your Majesty. That is not precisely an apology, is it? I owe you one in turn – but I prefer to say that I wish I had not had to betray your trust. I would... I would call you friend again, if I may?’

Bilba had not realised, till then, how much Thorin could resemble his nephews. His eyes crinkled up into a full smile, and an answering, if self-conscious, one came to her face. Time, she thought. If she did not, in fact, have to return to the Shire post-haste (and Lobelia would no doubt have appropriated everything of value from her smial by now, and really, it would be an awful lot of work to reclaim it all while injured), then she had time to see if this was part of Thorin’s repertoire of expressions, now Erebor was reclaimed. She would like that, she thought.

‘Yes. It would be a gift. Although –’ Definitely a grin now, something mischievous lurking in the corners of his eyes, ‘I would suggest that you restrict your diatribes on appropriate behaviour to dwarves, rather than orcs. I can introduce you to Dain.’

A mountain of gold was useless to her. But a dwarf – however stubborn, and insistent in speaking in an oh-so-secretive tongue – with an unexpected grin, and an argumentative family? This, she could deal with.   

And with that, as Oin bustled into the tent, satchel of undoubtedly foul potions at his side, she lay back, content. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm emerging from the fiction-writing woodwork after eight years. It's been a while, as evinced by the fact that the narrative perspective is still a bit skewed, but ach well. Unbeta-ed - any grammatical or typographical errors are my own responsibility (give me a shout if you've any suggested corrections).


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